Freak Out
by hiding duh
Summary: Samuel, Sylar, Claire. Traditionally, Claire gets cotton candy at carnivals. Today, she's getting a serving of amnesiac serial killer with a side of WTF.


**Title**: Freak Out  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Samuel, Sylar, Claire  
**Summary**: Traditionally, Claire gets cotton candy at carnivals. Today, she's getting a serving of amnesiac serial killer with a side of WTF.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Spoilers**: Through _Strange Attractors_  
**Word Count**: 2500  
**Notes**: In alphabetical order, countless thanks to **kathrynthegr8**, **linsadair**, and **mamozombie** for listening to me whine since the premiere.

Also, I recently tried the Freak Out for the first time, and I'm still super traumatized.

*

There's a reason Claire generally skips physics.

Partly because there are no cute guys (or—lately—girls) in her class. But mostly because she just doesn't do this whole dynamical system thing where there are attractors, strange or otherwise.

But Claire's pretty sure she's a magnet anyway. That is also physics, so it's only logical she's sneaking out of the lecture hall to go search for that one girl she suspects has been trying to kill Gretchen. And Claire's social life.

Sure, a cheap set of wind chimes took care of her little sorority problem last night, but there's still the matter of—

"Wait up!" Gretchen calls out, rushing down the hallway.

Claire hesitates, eyeing the exit.

Yep, definitely a magnet.

"Where we goin'?" Gretchen asks, books pressed to her chest.

"_I'm_ going to go find Rebecca," Claire grins amicably, "and you're going to go back and take notes for me?"

Gretchen narrows her eyes. "Don't think just because you're cute—"

"I can't believe I'm about to channel my dad," Claire mumbles, "but it's too dangerous for you." She pushes at the door and slips out. "I'll be back by lunch, Gretch!"

Gretchen pokes her head out. "But how will you even find—"

Claire blinks.

So. That was easy.

Apparently, there's a carnival right outside the science building. Or rather, there's no science building anymore.

Yeah, 'cause that's not strange or anything.

Guarded, Claire glances around, ducking behind a rusted barrel and peeking at the creepy fairgrounds stretching before her. She's roughly sixty percent sure that wasn't there ten seconds ago.

She sort of feels like grabbing some cotton candy, but she should probably call her dad first, because, usually, half-abandoned carnivals don't just appear out of nowhere.

With a frown, she presses against the cold metal, rummaging for her phone.

"What are you doing?"

Startled, Claire twists around, slumping against the barrel.

A tall lumberjack of some sort is towering above her, the sun at his back. "Are you lost?"

Claire's relatively certain all blood vessels in her brain just burst. "Sylar?"

He crouches down in front of her, palming his knees. "So they tell me."

"Sylar."

His brow knits together. "...wait, I _know_ you," he says, drawing closer.

"Sylar," she growls, reaching behind for some sort of weapon.

His face brightens. "We flew together," he tells her, then pauses, adding under his breath, "...I seem to have done that whole flying thing with a lot of women."

She closes her mouth with difficulty.

"...Claire?" he guesses, equal parts anxious and arrogant. "Look, I'm sorry about Jackie."

Claire's fingers wrap around a protruding bit of metal, prying it away from the barrel.

He winces, bangs falling into his eyes. "And your mother." He seems to think for a moment, staring at his shoes. "And apparently, your father."

She jams the rusted piece of metal into the back of his neck.

He keels over, sprawling on the ground.

Frantically, she reaches for her phone. Her dad's okay. He has to be. She just got her ass chewed out by him a few hours ago, so... there's no signal. Her phone has no signal. What kind of messed up Stephen King kind of carnival is this, where they've replaced telecommunications with _Sylar_—

"Ow," he groans into the dirt, pawing at his neck.

She should pound him into the ground with the rest of the decrepit old barrel, but she only has enough energy to muse, "That should have killed you."

"That... would've killed anyone," he grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. "What is wrong with you?"

Her response is automatic. "_Me_?"

He sits up, wiping the dirt off his mouth. "I'm going to need a tetanus shot."

Honestly, Claire was kinda sure getting kissed by a girl would be the weirdest thing to happen to her this week. So of course, this bastard's trying to top it.

Though, technically, she did briefly think about him in that stupid slaughterhouse. Telekinesis has that effect on her. So maybe she's having a bit of a nightmare, induced by sorority hazing and cafeteria food—

"You're not real."

He makes a face and rises, his ugly flannel shirt stretching across his chest. "I spent a few days thinking I was a zombie pilot," he says calmly, "so I'm inclined to agree with you."

What?

"What... happened to you?" she asks despite herself, rising on unsteady legs.

He turns to look at her and there's no recognition there. She doesn't like it. She doesn't like this obviously watered-down version of Sylar.

...well. She doesn't like the rampaging version, either, but. Whatever. This is ridiculous.

So she turns to leave.

"Ah, Claire Bennet," a large hand clasps her shoulder, "how wonderful to finally have you with us."

"Samuel," Sylar sighs, almost reverently, and Claire glances at the man out of the corner of her eye.

He's wearing more makeup than her prospective sorority sisters combined, but there's a strange sense of familiarity about him. "Have we met?"

Samuel smiles, expression unreadable. "Perhaps."

Sylar nods his chin at one of the nearby trailers. "She's staying?"

"Perhaps," Samuel repeats, eyes fixed on Claire's.

Yeah, not gonna happen. "Great, but no. Look, I'm trying to find—"

"Rebecca," Samuel nods, lips curling. "Yes, your friend is here." He tugs Claire forward gently, spreading his other arm in a graceful arc. "Would you like to see her?"

Claire's face scrunches up. "Not my friend," she grits out, fists clenching. "But yes."

"We do not condone violence here, Claire," Samuel warns, amused. His gaze flickers to Sylar's bloodied collar. "...though we do not necessarily enforce all rules."

And then he gives her a small dismissive wave, clearly expecting her to toddle off.

So... that's what she's doing. She's toddling off. And walking past trailers and stands and sideshow booths. With Sylar. Who's committing a minimum of seven fashion faux pas. And zero crimes.

Yeah, this is all wrong. Because this Sylar is even creepier than the crazy homicidal one.

"You need a haircut," she notes, voice laden with dislike.

"And you need a proper shirt," he grumbles, in a way that's entirely too reminiscent of Nathan. Which is probably the most bizarre aspect of all this, so she's going to repress it, thanks. "I understand you're in college now, Claire, but—"

She freezes in her tracks. "How do you know that?"

He pauses to look at her. "No... idea."

So, basically, he's been stalking her, then. "Just take me to Becky."

He gives her an awkward look. "To be honest, I'm just walking in circles. I have no idea who she is."

Claire blinks. Great. College has done nothing to improve the level of normalcy in her life.

"She's yea-high," she motions automatically, "cute, trying to kill my friends?" After a beat, she adds, "Doing your job?"

He gives her a weirdly vulnerable look, his bangs a floppy mess. Kinda like Peter's. "That's not me," he insists. "I don't do that."

"Anymore," she amends, and seriously, why is she even talking to this psycho?

His brows draw together. "_Claire_."

Ah, there we go.

"They haven't shown me everything," he explains slowly, apparently to himself. "I know what I've done, but I... didn't _do_ it."

Claire pushes past him, her shoulder slamming against his arm. "I'll find her myself."

He catches up to her quickly. "Wait."

She doesn't.

Okay. Becca's gotta be hiding in one of those freaky little shacks, right? If she checks each one, she could be done in... yeah, this is why she should've taken math. An hour? Two?

"Claire, please."

The _please_ sends chills down her spine and bile up her throat. "I hate you," she spins around, baring her teeth. "What could possibly make you think I'd want to spend any time with you?"

Clearly caught off guard, Sylar offers: "You liked me in Mexico."

Or maybe she's the crazy one.

A day ago, she was contemplating that whole dating a girl thing and today she's talking to a guy who molested her brain. A guy who evidently believes they partied in Cabo over spring break or something.

...okay.

"Becca! Becky!" she calls out to the uneven row of shacks and trailers. "I just want to talk!"

"Claire," Sylar says, voice low. "Let's go inside and discuss this."

Yeah, last time they talked, he proposed. She's not over that trauma yet. "I'm not interested in spending eternity with you; you already have my ability; obviously I can't kill you," she lists, checking her phone for a signal. "So just leave me alone."

"Eternity?" he asks, and okay, no. She's done with his little act.

She's lost a roommate, been kissed by a girl that maybe possibly totally reminds her of Sylar a tiny bit, and was strung up on hooks in front of a girl that may or may not be stalking her. There is nothing normal about any of this.

"Sylar."

"Don't call me that."

Irritated, Claire grabs him by the shirt. "Don't think for a second I believe you've been neutered by that guyliner-wearing carny—"

"Samuel."

"Samuel," she growls, then just... loses steam. "Look, how do I get out of here?"

And suddenly, there's an odd little spark of recognition in Sylar's eyes. "No," he says slowly, watching her. "I can't let you leave."

Claire is obviously messed up. Because this Sylar is less unpleasant than the amnesiac version. "I'm not asking, Sylar."

His eyes darken. "Neither am I, Claire."

Her heart speeds up. For completely unrelated reasons. "Get out of my way."

One corner of his lips curls. He draws to his full height. Even his hair seems to look less lame. "No."

But there's still the flannel, so she's not worried. "Your new daddy said no violence," she mocks, carelessly strolling past him. "See you in another hundred years."

His fingers wrap around her wrist. "I'm starting to remember. Because of you."

Convenient, she thinks, lips thinning. "Congratulations."

His grip tightens. "Stay."

Well. Time to put those three hours of training to use. Hastily, she bends her wrist and rotates her torso, freeing herself and knocking him down in the process. And now to find a plank of wood to bludgeon him with—

"Children," Samuel drawls, appearing out of nowhere. "Again, not to enforce a rule..."

Claire hesitates.

Deftly, Samuel takes her aside, and she half expects him to smell like what she imagines Jack Sparrow would smell like if he weren't fictional. He doesn't.

"We didn't show him everything, Claire," he tells her, lips brushing against her ear. "Only the important things."

So, Sylar's deranged proposal wasn't important. Not that she's offended or anything. "I don't care. I just want to find Becca."

"You want to find a place where you belong," Samuel corrects, draping a casual arm around her shoulder.

Momentarily surprised, Claire levels her gaze with Sylar's.

"A home," Samuel cajoles, index finger drawing an imaginary line from the fat curve of the big top to the ferris wheel in the distance to... Sylar, propped up on his elbows with an inexplicably polite expression. "A _family_."

"I have a home," she lies, shaking him off.

"A real home, Claire," Samuel tries again, offering Sylar a hand up. "A real family."

Sylar accepts, rising. "I think I remember offering her something similar once."

Samuel's eyes crinkle at the corners.

Claire snaps out of it. "I don't remember the part where you wanted us to join a circus, Sylar."

"...carnival," Samuel points out, corners of his lips tugging down.

Sylar ignores him, cocking his head in a more recognizable manner. "Everyone here is like you and me, Claire." His voice deepens with emotion. "You'll be accepted here. Unconditionally. Like I have been."

She's not tempted, okay. She wants to be normal, sure. But if surrounding herself with freaks is the only way to achieve that...

"I have to... get back to class," she mumbles. "Physics. Very important."

"You came here for a reason," Sylar tells her, stopping her in her tracks.

"Yeah, to find the girl I'm pretty sure killed my roommate—"

"To find yourself," Sylar says as though he's still knuckle-deep in her brain. "You were drawn here. Like me. _To_ me."

"Technically, I just stepped out of the science b..." she trails off, annoyed. "Soon as I leave here, my dad's going to have this place torn down. Or blown up. Depending on his mood."

Samuel's smile widens. "Only those who belong here can hope to find us."

Claire smirks. "You don't know my dad."

Displeased, Samuel inclines his head.

"Claire," Sylar says, "in the end, you can only be where you are meant to be."

So she's been told. Twice in two days. By people her father doesn't like. For possibly similar reasons.

But she can't exactly handle this new altruistic Sylar who only vaguely remembers the hell he's put her through—_or_ his Paul Bunyan look—so she takes a step back, holding up a cautious hand. "If that's true, you won't mind letting me leave."

"No," Samuel agrees. "You will come back."

Yeah, not in this lifetime.

Oddly, Sylar doesn't seem quite as agreeable. "Claire—"

With a practiced little bow, Samuel produces a stick of cotton candy, effectively shutting him up. "Your favorite, Claire?"

Yes, but Claire's not entirely sure where he's been keeping it, so... no. "Sorry, not a fan."

"You can only lie to yourself for so long," Samuel cautions, discarding the stick.

She's got an eternity. And she's pretty good at lying. She's willing to try, especially if it means avoiding brainwashed serial killers and guyliner.

Surreptitiously, she rolls her eyes and makes to leave, but Sylar hastily clasps her hands between his. He closes his eyes, concentrating, and Claire briefly flashes on his file. Psychometry, right?

...ew.

She doesn't care if he sees what Gretchen... well. She cares a little. It's a little awkward. And it could give him ideas. Ideas are bad. 'Cause she really doesn't need two strange attractors orbiting her... something or other.

Yeah, she really needs to pay more attention in class.

Finally, Sylar's eyes open. "Ah," is all he says, with a secret sort of smile.

The hair on the back of her neck stands up. She should be afraid or grossed out, but mostly, she's determined to never ditch physics again.

She just needs her phone and a strong signal and all of this will be over.

"We shall see you soon, Claire," Samuel says.

Claire's eyes stray to Sylar's.

"Not if she sees us first," Sylar smirks, raising an eyebrow.

Wary, Claire takes a few steps back and then the carnival fades, leaving her alone on school grounds.

She flips open her phone as she walks back. Her thumb hovers over the speed dial. She should call her dad. She needs to call him. It's the right thing to do. And she has to break this pattern where she consistently attracts weirdos.

Speaking of...

"Find anything?" Gretchen greets with a yawn, sticking her head out of a lab window.

Eyes trained on her shoes, Claire quietly pockets her phone. "Nope."

Maybe she'll turn Sylar in.

Tomorrow.


End file.
